


Sigue Besándome

by honeybun, Sabo (Sabou)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic, veraverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo
Summary: Little Snippets for George DeValier‘s 'Bésame Mucho‘. Mostly set after the war.
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36





	1. Goldfinch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [George deValier](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=George+deValier).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [Sigue Besándome](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064783) by [sekaiwosikideitehoshii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekaiwosikideitehoshii/pseuds/sekaiwosikideitehoshii)



  
After the war had finally ended the garden seemed to explode in relief, wisteria burst forth and covered the back of the small house in a lilac embrace. Lavender crowded the path down to the meadows so whenever Feliciano and Ludwig took their evening walk they would often trample some of the stems. It was here where Antonio found the most peace, looking out towards the lush green of Tuscany, quiet and tranquil. He could hear the tolling bells of San Gimignano in the distance if he happened to listen at the right time. 

Sometimes he would sit all day. Life had a different pace now, more like the Italy he had known as a boy. Not the frantic grasping of the war years, dust and smoke blowing up through the lush forests. Sometimes it felt like it had barely even happened. When he sat for too long, Lovino would inevitably come to find him. His shoes crunching the gravel underfoot as he came down the path, ice in the glasses he carried clinking against the sides. 

‘Only old men sit and stare at nothing. Are you going senile?’ Lovino’s brash tone couldn’t hide the fondness behind his words, Antonio knew there was a time, a long time, where he was afraid his mind would be clouded by fog forever. As always, his words were a way of hiding his real worries. 

Antonio closes his eyes in bliss as Lovino’s cool palm caressing the curls on his forehead. 

‘What a great blessing, to grow old with you,’ Antonio answered, bypassing what Lovino had said and as always finding something that pinched at Lovino’s heart. 

Lovino had found, too, that he had changed since the end of the war. He didn’t have the same anger in him, bitterness. Never for Antonio either. How could he? 

He let his hand keep combing through Antonio’s hair, and handed him his drink. 

‘You won’t start watching for birds, will you?’ Lovino joked softly. 

‘Goldfinch, several this morning,’ Antonio replied, a smile in his voice even though Lovino couldn’t see it. 

His arm moved a little awkwardly, as it always did now, but at least it moved. His hand came to brush against Lovino, squeezing his bicep, fingers digging into his shirt. 

Lovino’s heart trembled, quivering in his chest like a sickly injured bird. Ever since the incident with Antonio, and everything with Feli, it had scarcely been allowed to beat without burden. Feli and his Ludwig were happy now, and with Antonio getting better everyday he was slowly allowing himself to hope. 

‘You know I love you, don’t you?’ Lovino whispered, facing the vibrant green of late spring in Tuscany. New beginnings. 

Antonio’s hand came to rest against Lovino’s, and squeezed, his breath held a little laugh, ‘Of course. I’ve always known.’ 

It was as simple as that. As dusk set upon the hills Antonio’s fingers fiddled against Lovino’s, and he reached to press his lips against the tips, laying his cheek against the palm of Lovino’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vargas family likely lives somewhere close to Anzio in George‘s stories, however we‘ve moved them a bit further up north.


	2. Glass Tomato No. 2

Lovino fiddles with the box in his pocket and his lips downturn, his forehead creases. It’s stupid.

He’s gazing out of the small window at the back of their flat, which looks towards the Tuscan hills at edge of the town. It isn’t a particularly nice day, or special. It drizzled a little this morning and it’s likely to again at the tail end of the afternoon. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s planned this, that would be admitting too much. 

He bites his lip, stupid bastard, he scolds himself, as if the box in his pocket isn’t proclaiming enough. He rolls his eyes at himself, a deep sigh leaving his nose with force. 

‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ Antonio speaks softly at his elbow, a hand coming to rest at his hip while he manoeuvres around Lovino to get another pot of coffee started. They‘d stopped going to the cantina as much now, much nicer to sit in the quiet of their shared home with no need to say anything if they didn’t feel like it. 

Lovino has a brief thought that he’s become an old man, but he doesn’t care, because Antonio prefers it here, in the quiet warm of their little apartment over the bustle of the cantina, which as a young man he would gravitate to. 

When the coffee has boiled they both go and sit on their shared couch together, and Antonio‘s foot finds its way into Lovino’s lap. Lovino switches his novel into his left hand so his right might rub and pull at Antonio‘s toes and massage at the sole of his foot. 

It starts raining again. Tuscany in spring is beautiful, just before it breaks into that beaming summer light, the plants all suck up as much of the Italian downfall as they can, growing greener and greener by the day. Lovino wouldn’t say it, but he feels particularly sentimental over spring. It was that April when it had all began, he couldn’t remember the precise day, but it felt right. Here, now. 

Lovino takes his hand away from Antonio‘s ankle, and fiddles in his pocket. He takes the thick gold band from its safe home there, one he’d bought in an antique market in Orezzo, and had smartened up, engraved, and he places it on the tip of Antonio‘s big toe. 

‘Huh,’ Antonio huffs, eyes fixed on the gold that adorns his foot. 

Lovino doesn’t know where to look, so he pretends to be reading his book once more, eyes blurring against the words on the page. 

Antonio puts down his coffee carefully against the low table by his side, and reaches forward with his hand. With ease he flicks the ring about in his hand and places it on his long finger. 

‘Lovi, aren’t you a charmer?’ Antonio says, voice a little too swelling with emotion to be teasing properly just yet.

Lovino purses his lips and doesn’t smile, ‘Seems stupid just me wearing one, doesn’t it?’ He grits his teeth and hates himself for it, words always tumbling out before he can stop them. 

Antonio, his patient, sweet Tontoño, laughs. It isn’t in a way where Lovino feels made fun of, laughed at — it is soft and melodic and it only means that Antonio is happy and he loves him. 

‘So romantic, Lovino,’ Lovino turns away and refuses to look at Antonio‘s beaming face, ‘The thirtieth is our anniversary, no? This time of year always makes me sentimental...’ 

Lovino mumbles, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ and crosses his arms. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon somewhat cuddled on the couch, and when it rains Lovino fetches a blanket for them both to wrap up in. Underneath, he wraps his hand across Antonio’s, and enjoys the cool metal of the band there. Now, forever.


	3. Soup

Lovino had never claimed to be good at cooking, so God knows why he was stood at the market in the town square, at fuck knows what time in the morning.

The mist over the hills was slowly clearing, but the morning air was still damp and cold. Market sellers called out their deals of the day and shuffled their produce. 

He scowled, not meaning to, but his face seemed to settle that way. he prodded at some tomatoes, and suddenly stuck up straight. Not tomatoes. 

It was hard to think of a dish without them, so eventually he gravitated back, not caring to check them for ripeness but simply bundling them into a bag to take home. 

It wasn’t his usual job, but today it was one he had to take. Antonio had always been a bit over dramatic, and ever since the war and the incident, he hadn’t been the same, but any opportunity Lovino had to treat him like that he would take. 

Antonio got ill a little easier, especially as it got colder, and whatever little illness was going around their small town would inevitably make its way to him. This week he had a snuffle from one of his Nonna friends in the communal vegetable plot. This morning Lovino had left him with a warm kiss on the forehead while he cleared his throat miserably in bed. 

‘We don’t need food, Lovi, not if we have love,’ Lovino scoffed, knowing full well it was the Spaniard that ate the lion’s share in this house anyway. He let himself be pulled back into bed for a moment before extracting himself and leaving to the market. 

Lovino doesn’t like looking after people, but he finds himself doing it more often than not. Old, proud Grandpa Roma would reluctantly accept his help when he came over with stew and extra blankets. 

‘Did the Spaniard make that?’ he’s ask haughtily, eyeing it with derision. Lovino didn’t answer, as Roma already knew. The bastard still ate it. 

His little Feliciano too, he’d end up spending the night or having him dropped off to spend the day in the warm of their little kitchen, wrapped up and given sweet hot fruit juice from the stove. 

Antonio always slung an arm around him on those occasions, whispering in his ear that he loved to see how much Lovino cared for his little brother, even though he pretends not to sometimes. Lovino flushes and rolls his eyes. You're such a _nurturer_ , Lovino. He'd hate and love it when Antonio said that, in equal amounts. 

For Antonio, it is always different. Of course it is.

He’s the cook in their house, for the most part, and Lovino would like to keep it that way, _thanks_. However, when he gets home, and Antonio is still very much asleep in bed, curls sticking to a clammy forehead, he’ll take up the apron. 

A stew, as always, is best. He even has a stilted conversation with one of Antonio‘s Nonnas about what they’d suggest, and he receives big juicy oranges from their orchard and bone broth in little ceramic bowls and sweet powdered pastry for later. 

It astounds him, as ever, the love the Antonio continues to put out into the world, and that, for all of Lovino‘s cynicism, how it seems to give it back. 

As he cooks he receives visitors by their kitchen window. Young girls asking after uncle, and handing over bracelets made from dried pasta and beans, other residents of their shared garden space come to give their advice. Ointments are passed through the threshold, medicinal sweets, tea and biscuits. It‘s almost enough to make Lovino weep at times. They say it takes a village to raise a child, well, apparently it takes a community of old ladies to nurse a sickly Spaniard.

He loads a tray up with the numerous offers from the village, as well as the soup he’s taken his time to make. Sighs, the colourful presents of others as always outshining his own, humble and simple offering. Not made with flare, but made from the heart.

When he enters the bedroom Antonio opens one eye, and groans as he attempts to sit up, 'I wondered where you’d gone, darling,’ he mumbles. 

Lovino scolds him for attempting to get up, and goes to fuss and plump pillows behind his back so he might be comfortable. Only then arranging the tray over his knees. 

Lovino has always known, even when he pretended he didn’t, that Antonio was and always is meant for him. For him it doesn’t need to be big or showy - haven’t they done and been through enough together?

When Antonio moves a hand towards his tray and takes up the spoon, forsaking all other gifts, it’s one of many confirmations Lovino wanted but didn’t ask for, more than he could have ever hoped. 

‘Lovino, whenever I’m unwell, all I want is your soup,’ coos Antonio as he shoves more in his mouth, pausing only briefly to cool it. 

Only later, once Lovino has given in to his own self and crawled under the covers again - the light of outside still partially streaming in through the curtains - do they feast on the other various offerings. Lovino mutters to him where each of them came from, who he must remember to thank later. 

Antonio smiles and kisses the side of Lovino‘s temple, breath still a little feverish, ‘Sometimes it’s good just to be the two of us, isn’t it?’ 

When Lovino melts into Antonio‘s side at that, he promises himself he won’t admit it.


	4. Beso

Like thunderclouds brewing with heavy rain, Lovino too harboured dark things within him, threatening to spill forth at any moment. It was particularly bad when the Spaniard was around, being sweet, soft, even playful with him. He wasn’t used to that, no one had ever tried so hard before, so effortlessly. Antonio didn’t get knocked back from his continued rejections, his brusque tongue, his criticism, he just pushed forward. Lovino wondered if this never ending patience was a characteristic of the Spanish people, or just Antonio. 

It started to lift him up, in ways he didn’t like to admit. Like an ever present bubble that Lovino was sure would burst soon, if not _he_ would burst it. Antonio‘s persistent belief in him was annoying, yes, but equally it was an honour, one Lovino didn’t know how to handle. His grandfather didn’t believe in him this much, always treated him like a child. So when Antonio freely gave him all his trust, it made him feel good, _great_ , like he was capable of everything, like he’d never let Antonio down. 

That was what he was truly afraid of, letting him down. The thought of that inevitability always took him over on his gloomier days, where he couldn’t shake the image of Antonio raising an eyebrow and finally putting aside his good humour, his patience in Lovino, and scoffing. 

‘You aren’t worth it,’ are words Lovino had heard in his head over and over. Never from Antonio‘s lips, but Lovino convinces himself this is preparation for the real thing. Good practice. 

As always, as with the gun and his ankle and every other idiotic misstep of his, he is wrong, and it doesn’t go as he imagined.

Antonio does not, or has not yet, given up on him. And in a very strange turn of events, seems to have only become more emboldened in his actions. 

He follows Lovino, he compliments him, teases him softly, and makes him so flustered and bashful he doesn’t know _what_ to do anymore. 

It all comes to a head, the dark cloud in Lovino‘s chest threatening thunder at another scolding from Roma, another reminder of his supposed youth and lack of maturity. He is stomping around the kitchen, Feliciano happily ensconced in the bedroom while he slams drawers and doors to lighten his mood. 

  
‘Lovino?’ the soft mumble of the Spaniard comes from the open door, his face frowning as he peers in, ‘What‘s wrong?’ 

Lovino doesn’t know why, but tears spring forth, he mutters about how Roma thinks him so untrustworthy, not good enough, an utter disappointment. 

Antonio laughs, damn him — not at him, no, but it feels like it. He laughs in a sad way, as if in disbelief at what Lovino is letting tumble from his mouth, ‘Now who could ever see you as a disappointment?’ 

It‘s so kind, so soft, that Lovino momentarily forgets himself. His eyes squint as they start to blur and swim in further tears, and his hand grips the loose shirt Antonio wears.

‘Do you really think that?’ Lovino whispers, desperate to know but dying too, not wanting to hear this person - _Antonio_ \- confirm something that will break him. 

Antonio tuts, ‘ _Mi corazón_ ,’ he sighs heavily, like his heart is too heavy to bear, ‘you are just right, exactly as you are.’ 

Lovino once again feels a foreigner in his own body at those words, he leans forward, Antonio‘s eyes flicking nervously between his and his lips, until closing finally as their mouths press together. 

Something within Lovino breaks, finally all those things bound up in knots so tight to his chest unfurl, he feels lighter than he has in months, maybe years. The weight of disapproval he had felt dissipates as Antonio cups his cheek. His broad thumb strokes against his cheekbone, padding at the sticky salty trail there. 

His other hand comes to rest on Lovino‘s hip, burning a hot brand there. It doesn’t feel like much really, but Lovino can see it for what it is, a subtle mark there for no one else to see. Something invisible which Lovino will surely feel forever more. A place where Antonio‘s hand rests perfectly, and should do now, for eternity. 

Their kiss is so sweet it should never stop, Antonio‘s hand has come to thumb at Lovino‘s lip, for him to kiss and nip at while he smiles and Lovino blushes. He doesn’t even realise the older man has lifted him on top of the table, backed him against it. But he feels wonderful in the small space he’s allowed. 

'Lovino? Grandpa? I have to speak to...‘

Nothing so good can last forever. Of course. Feliciano has a radar for Lovino‘s private business - like all younger brothers - and so it is inevitable that Lovino should be interrupted by him when he finally feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

_'Feliciano! You should knock before—'_


End file.
